


Honeymoon

by prinsessa_mouse



Series: Living in Uggr [3]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Agnostic Priest, Bonding, Broken Promises, Bullying, Bystanders - Freeform, Crying, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fiddle playing, Fights, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insecurity, M/M, Marriage, Physical Abuse, Pre-Dethklok, Recording, Swedish Lessons, Touring, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, forced reading, honeymoon period, pre-fame, unstable Magnus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27909661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prinsessa_mouse/pseuds/prinsessa_mouse
Summary: Three defining moments Skwisgaar starts to notice something amiss after the wedding.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Skwisgaar Skwigelf
Series: Living in Uggr [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021879
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	1. Push

Burning pain shot through his neck.

His left wrist cramped from hours of playing; his dexterous fingers no longer able to push down the strings on the fretboard to produce clear notes. They stumbled tiredly as if they were drunken feet on an uneven path. His strained muscles robbed him of his vibrato and emotions.

His right-hand lost feeling, all his control turned into limp lazy bow technique.

His shoulders and back screamed in an agony only known to fiddler players.

“I am tireds Magi,” Skwisgaar whined. He dropped his fiddle into the proper rest position his grandfather taught him when he started taking lessons with him. He became aware of how much his feet hurt from standing all afternoon in their home studio.

From behind the mixer, Magnus leaned back in his chair to stare at Skwisgaar with a raised eyebrow. “Since when are you a quitter?” he asked.

“I saids I am tired not a fucking quitters,” the blonde snapped.

“I hear bitching when you know you have to suffer for your art.”

Skwisgaar scowled over the remark. The stool he sat on at the start of the session got taken away because Magnus thought he played better standing up. He got to watch his husband sit while they recorded together. The emoting movement that took hold of his body to dance with the music became rigid with anger. He knew how to play sitting down, how was it fair that Magnus got to sit down because he played an acoustic guitar?

“Go again,” Magnus said hitting the record button.

The blonde’s fingers didn’t have the energy to play any more trills, his lack of vibrato ruined the sound of traditional Scandinavian music. It would be a true sin to record such low-quality music on the handcrafted violin his grandfather made him. He kept his instrument in rest position to protest. He needed a break.

Magnus slammed the pause button with a bit of force. “I don’t know why you’re giving me attitude, sötnos. You chose to do this project,” he grumbled. “It’s a lot of rehearsal and time put into recording for you to quit because you’re tired. This is your last solo track and you’re done.”

“I’m nots quitting. My body ams sore!”

“I hope you don’t whine this much when you record with your bands. I’m hitting record. Let’s track this and I’ll make it up to you,” Magnus said. Skwisgaar acted like a child sometimes. He was stubborn beyond belief when he decided he didn’t want to do something. He didn’t understand why after six hours of recording, Skwisgaar got ornery when this was what he wanted in exchange for wearing dress clothes to their wedding.

Skwisgaar brought his fiddle back to his body, the chin rest bit into the violin hickey on his neck, the shoulder rest even set at the lowest setting still felt to high forcing his arm into an awkward position. His fingers gently touched the strings with respect for the instrument, he envisioned his hands swishing water back and forth the way they did when he zoned out in the bathtub. His wrist unlocked; his bowing arm finally loosened up enough to relieve the tension in his elbow. He closed his eyes to block out his surroundings, his toe tapped inside his worn Converse as his internal soundtrack clicked on. He heard the guitar intro in his head before his fingers hit the fretboard. He placed himself in Sweden, he pretended he was standing next to his grandfather as they played this song. The music moved him naturally, his vibrato and trills crisp as a fall day in his hometown. He pushed his pain into the music, exchanged the physical aches for the sorrowful melody pouring from his instrument. He forgave his husband for pushing him to keep playing, he understood suffering for his art.

Magnus watched in awe as Skwisgaar played. It was one thing to watch him play circles around people on guitar, nothing compared to him playing violin not even him singing and he had a gorgeous singing voice. He let go when he played violin, nothing in the world mattered except for the music coming from the instrument and him. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he gave every part of his being for this one recording. Magnus wondered if the music moved him to tears, what did he think about when he played? Did he push him to hard? He complained a lot when he got tired. His body hurt from playing, maybe he pushed him too much for this recording.

When the song ended, Skwisgaar’s bubble popped and all the pain hit him at once. He brought his fiddle back to rest position, he stood perfectly still until he got the strength to open his eyes. He blinked his blurred vision away and looked to Magnus for approval.

The older man pressed the stop button and grinned at the younger man. “Holy shit, sötnos! You did an amazing job,” he praised.

“Jag mår inte bra,” the blonde mumbled. He visibly slumped while he put his fiddle away in the case.

“Come sit down,” Magnus said patting his knee for emphasis.

Skwisgaar sighed. Sitting down would be nice. So would a hot shower or a homecooked meal. He needed space instead of being smothered in affection. The arms that opened to beckon him in were tempting. In his exhausted state a cuddle might be okay.

“Sötnos.”

The younger man closed the wooden violin case, his fingers lingered over the carving of a wolf on the lid as he parted ways with a piece of his heritage. His stomach twisted, he missed home and his grandfather. It didn’t seem right playing without him.

“Are you okay?”

“Ja,” Skwisgaar chirped. He plastered a smile onto his face before turning around to face Magnus. He recoded an album worth of content, pride bristled within him at the realization. All his anger and resentment faded away. Happiness washed over him, a sense of relief too. His previous pessimistic thoughts of losing a part of himself and his heritage replaced with a greater appreciation that he could send his grandfather a copy of his recordings. Magnus looked proud; his whole being radiated warmth. He sang his praise about the last track. He believed Skwisgaar could handle one more recording and now they could celebrate. He sauntered over to his husband and dropped his lanky form down onto his lap.

Magnus wrapped his arms around the younger man’s waist. He rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek too. “I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as surrendering your soul to the music. You looked so free; the music flowed from you naturally as if you were singing. Does that make sense? I just wow Skwis, I saw a part of you I’ve never seen before when you play. You let go and played for the sake of playing. It was seriously amazing, baby,” he rambled.

“I’m sorries I yells at you before,” Skwisgaar sighed. He snuggled into the embrace even if his lower back protested from the angle he sat on.

“Hey, water under the bridge. I pushed you too hard near the end. I knew you were tired and should’ve listened. We got an amazing recording, but you’re burnt out. I am truly sorry for forcing you to keep playing. How are you doing?”

Skwisgaar rested his head on Magnus’ shoulder. He loved the smell of cologne and weed that clung to his curls. He flooded his senses with the familiar smell that he associated with his partner. His fingers got a hold of one of the bouncy curls. He toyed with the hair pulling it taut before releasing it to watch it spring back into a perfect coil. Magnus’ hair entertained him, he found great joy touching his curls. Even when he got fed up with their petty fights, he liked to play with his husband’s hair as they hugged it out.

“You need some quiet time, huh?”

The blonde nodded.

“Things got a bit emotional in the last recording. Do you want to talk about it?” Magnus tried.

“Nej.”

Magnus shifted them into a comfier position in the small chair. His husband liked being held, his lanky body made it difficult to scoop all of him up unless they were on the couch. He squeezed Skwisgaar tight, the heavy weight of his crushing hugs soothed the tearful days and anxiety attacks. Sometimes he didn’t understand what caused his husband so much distress. The anxiety came and went, his moods minor in comparison to his own. Skwisgaar begged for comfort a lot. Magnus asked him to explain his anxiety a few times. The blonde called it stress from perfectionism.

Skwisgaar continued to play with the older man’s curls as he melted into the embrace. He didn’t regret working on his fiddle project. His body would ache for a few hours, a shower and sleep fixed everything. Magnus mentioned making it up to him. He planned to demand a blowjob in the morning but for now the hug fixed his mood.

“Jag älskar dig sötnos,” Magnus whispered.

“I knows.”

The older man disliked silences, hearing Skwisgaar’s voice calmed him. “Want to listen to your tracks?” he asked.

“Ja, why nots,” Skwisgaar sighed dejectedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is that much needed part two that ties in before Video Games.  
> Ten months into the marriage, Skwisgaar turns twenty one and started to realize what he's gotten himself into.  
> The fiddle stuff came about due to my own suffering to record for the xmas cards!  
> I hope you all enjoy this sad little three part series. Promise to no longer deviate in a million chaotic directions!!  
> **If you want to hear the song that inspired this piece of emotional folk fiddling its based off Braveheart by Draupner**


	2. Pull

Mountains of books piled up on the coffee table in the living room.

It started out as a cute way to bond with one another and share their favorite literature. Skwisgaar got the idea from Pickles. The thought of Nathan and the redhead spending hungover afternoons sitting together peacefully reading Shakespeare and King was romantic. He wanted to improve his ability to read English, maybe even encourage Magnus to learn more Swedish.

They agreed to share their favorite books. Magnus liked science fiction while Skwisgaar liked poetry and mythology. The coffee table got cluttered quickly. The Swede asked his mom to send him a few of his books and a couple children’s books in Swedish.

The prospect of sharing his language excited him. Pickles and Nathan always indulged him in Swedish swearing or dirty phrases. He bounced with excitement when the parcel arrived. He hugged the copies of Pippi Longstocking and The Moomins and The Great Flood to his chest. He read them to his mom when he learned how to read. He spent a great deal of time emersed in fairy tale worlds before he discovered music. He imagined far off lands and related to characters who were outcasts. Sharing this part of his life with his husband felt special. He kindly asked Magnus to pick books he loved as a child. Little did he know that this suggestion would make him miserable.

The older man’s choices were fine. He picked up a few used copies of the Choose Your Own Adventure books. He said they could be read many times and still be amazing. They provided entertainment on road trips or when he babysat his little sister. Skwisgaar asked a few times about meeting his in-laws, they were a mystery to him. He didn’t know much about the Hammersmith’s except for the box of photos he found one day when he was cleaning. He snooped through all the photos of the family of four, living in a beautiful house that everyone associates with the American Dream. He never mentioned that he discovered the photos. He tucked them back into the basement closet with the rest of the boxes jammed into the small space.

Choose Your Own Adventure described his relationship with Magnus perfectly. Everything he did had an outcome later.

He enjoyed reading the books and his husband chiming in one of the options from memory or his dramatic _ooooh_ when he chose the dangerous path of the book.

The biggest hit was Swedish poetry.

Magnus hung on his every word. He asked him to translate the poems for him afterwards. Skwisgaar painted the picture of home, he felt warm and fuzzy inside over the poetry. His spouse beside him playing with the locks of his wavy hair fit his fantasy. He dreamed of that life for his mom all the time.

While Swedish poetry was a hit Swedish lessons didn’t go so well. Magnus harbored a lot of anger over the time spent learning basic everyday words. His scowl scared Skwisgaar, he decided after a week that he could live with sötnos and jag älskar dig.

In retaliation, a copy of Fox in Socks got handed to the younger man during their designated bonding time. Sure, the Moomin books featured artwork but this was a picture book. Rhyming schemes and poetry aside, it was a book of tongue twisters and non-sense that caused his tongue to stumble through the words. Magnus snickered. He said Dr. Seuss wrote fun books and that they were good practice for teaching children to read. Sure, when they smoked a joint the non-sensical rhymes were hilarious but in the sobering times Skwisgaar noticed his husband mocking him.

Addressing the issue earned him a nickname…

_Princess_

Putting up any type of fight resulted in that nickname being hurled at him. Skwisgaar decided if the fights turned into a game of name calling, he could find a name for Magnus.

_Skitstövel_

He snickered about the house as his husband tried his hardest to figure out what he yelled back at him.

Skwisgaar dug his heels in about the trade off, him improving his English reading in exchange for his husband’s participation in learning Swedish. They settled on an agreement. The younger man would read Green Eggs and Ham aloud while Magnus learned basic Swedish conservation and phrases.

In theory it was fair. Both would get what they wanted. Skwisgaar practiced, he dedicated many hours getting the English as polished as he could manage. He considered asking William for help, he changed his mind because he thought it might sound embarrassing to say he needed to read a children’s book. Besides, he liked to learn things on his own. He beamed with pride when he sat down on the couch a week later and recited the book from memory. He followed along page for page to keep himself on track. He chose a reasonable pace of speaking to prevent his tongue from twisting. His confidence brimmed to the surface, a smile pulled at his face when he neared the end, his pace quickening with excitement that he could read a book of rhymes without making almost every other word plural. His cocky nature got the better of him as he stumbled on the last line. He closed the book quickly, looking at his husband with a giant smile because he held up his end of the bargain.

Magnus laughed.

Skwisgaar sat on the couch crying while his husband continued to poke fun at the mistakes he made. Subtle little mistakes that shouldn’t matter. He called it teasing, he loved him and his broken English. When the tears turned to outright sobs, Magnus apologized.

Sitting together reading lost its meaningfulness.

The piles of books on the coffee table didn’t move, no new ones were added. The blonde rejected to read aloud to Magnus anymore. He read in the bathtub with the door locked. The subject of Swedish lessons got dropped again. What good would it do to force a bully like Magnus to speak in his language. He’d probably mock him in his mother tongue next.

The incident drove a wedge between them.

Magnus thankfully got hired for some studio sessions which got him out of the house. It didn’t stop him from leaving a Honey Do List on the table. The chores ranged from basic everyday things to ridiculous expectations like alphabetizing their music and movies.

Skwisgaar cursed around the house while he cleaned. He stamped his feet on the hardwood floor like an indignant toddler having a tantrum. He didn’t deserve the punishments and chores on his days off. He worked hard by providing a lot of income with his touring and studio sessions. He kept promises, he didn’t laugh at his husband when he got to drunk or high to function. He ran the house with no thanks. His only outlets were spending time with William at the video rental store, talking to Pickles or his mom. Band practice served as his therapy where he could play to his hearts content without correction. His bandmates trusted him.

Magnus’ apology was sincere when he wrote him a song.

The apology meant the world to Skwisgaar until the next fight.

The younger man sat on the couch playing guitar when Magnus stormed into the living room with a look of pure hatred etched on his face. He stopped playing to give his husband his full attention.

“Why the hell aren’t the dishes done?” he snapped.

Skwisgaar sighed, “I hads laundry and packings to do. Remember I ams going on tour for a week.”

“I don’t care. You know what is expected of you while I am away.”

“How high ams you?”

Magnus’ drug use increased after their wedding. Skwisgaar tried not to point it out to often. He hated the days when he got like this, his anger led to berating which hurt his feelings. His anxiety piqued, he cried a lot, and asked his husband’s forgiveness.

“Now I have to do fucking dishes,” Magnus snapped. He trembled from the rage coursing through him. The urge to slap the stupid look off Skwisgaar’s face tempted him. Those piercing blue eyes stared at him judgementally. “Get your fucking ass into the kitchen!”

“Pfft, no. I will does them after I practices.”

The older man’s voice reached a new level when he screamed, “GET INTO THE KITCHEN NOW!”

Skwisgaar quickly set his guitar on the stand and obeyed. He hurried past his husband into the kitchen to stand awkwardly near the sink. He saw the piles of dishes that needed to be done, he should’ve done them after he ate lunch. He knew better, he ran into standoffs like this before with Magnus. He never got this angry with him though.

The loud sound of something being slammed down onto the kitchen table caused the younger man to jump and peek through his blonde hair over to his husband. He stood by the table pointing at the chair with a book set on the placemat.

“If you want to act like a fucking child by mouthing off to me then I’ll treat you like a child,” Magnus barked. “Sit your ass down here and read to me while I do your chores.”

“Nej,” Skwisgaar said timidly.

Magnus’ booming voice reverberated off the walls with his next comment, “This isn’t a choice, Princess. Sit your ass down and read to me.”

The younger man’s lip trembled; he didn’t understand the anger. An argument over dishes confused him, he talked back to Magnus all the time it was supposedly a part of his youthful charm. He chose to listen to his husband’s request by taking a seat in his spot at the table. The look cast upon him scared him shitless, he didn’t want to test his patience.

“Very good,” Magnus chided.

Skwisgaar choked back a sob when his looked down to see the copy of Fox In Socks on the table.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

The older man went over to the sink and turned his back. He couldn’t stand the sight of Skwisgaar, his sniveling form looked pathetic and it irritated him. He rather liked washing dishes, he found it relaxing. He filled the sink with water and soap until suds formed. “My mom used to make me read her the Bible as a punishment when I was bad,” he shared.

“Don’ts make me does this,” Skwisgaar begged.

“You wanted to practice reading English so here’s your chance, Princess.”

The blonde opened the book that caused his agony. He heard Magnus correcting him every chance he got. He wiped away the tears that blurred his vision as he stared down at the pictures of Fox and Knox’s antics. He wished he never suggested bonding over books, he hated that their special time became a punishment. He turned the page and fumbled through the awkward phrases he knew he would have to repeat.

“Skwis, let's do tricks with bricks and blocks, sir. Let's do tricks with chicks and clocks, sir.”

“Lets does trick with brock and and blicks,” Skwisgaar sobbed out.

Magnus sighed, “Try again Princess.”

Skwisgaar wasn’t allowed to leave the table until he finished reading the book.

The older man disliked hearing his husband cry. He pleaded in Swedish to stop but Magnus couldn’t let him think he went soft. Mouthing off and being irresponsible had consequences.

The punishment was perfect for his Princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got me emotional writing it.  
> I'm so sorry I did this to Skwisgaar!


	3. Snap

The first time Magnus slapped him was an accident. A reflex during an argument when Skwisgaar told him he hated him.

The second time was intentional.

Blood poured from his nose and stained his white tank top, the aching sensation pulsated around his cheek and orbital socket. His vision blurred in his left eye that slowly swelled shut. Magnus backhanded him over a snide comment in Swedish. The force of the slap knocked him against a wall in the living room where he screamed his distaste again at his husband.

_Jag hatar dig för det här!_

_Rör mig inte!_

The Swedish brought another blow this time to his stomach which sent him to his knees, he sobbed for him to stop. Promising in his broken English he would stop yelling in his language if his husband stopped hitting him.

The third time the cops showed up at their door.

Skwisgaar knew how to lie. He reassured them during the wellness check that it was a drunken disagreement between boyfriends. Magnus took responsibility saying that they argued, a lovers quarrel over stupid things. _Boys will be boys_ , the older man chuckled. He ruffled his husband’s hair affectionately.

The fourth, fifth, sixth time Magnus got high and took it out on Skwisgaar for the fun of it.

Seventh, eighth, nineth time he got so drunk he destroyed the furniture and made his husband clean it up. All the while screaming at him for being the cause because he gave him a look or possibly talked shit about him in Swedish during a call to his mom.

The tenth time Skwisgaar never forgot because he couldn’t leave the house for two weeks. He cancelled band practices and tours, he forfeited job offers with the studio, and he avoided seeing William at the video rental store.

The blame always landed on him.

Magnus took the blame when his drug use got out of hand. He started begging Skwisgaar to hide the drugs he bought and to not give into him no matter how much he begged. He sounded serious about cleaning up his act. The younger man thought they would survive this obstacle. One fist to the ribs or a cigarette snubbed out on his skin had him surrendering the drugs instantly.

His list of chores increased along with the punishments.

He knew what he stood to lose by not complying.

Tours and calling his mom became his lifeline. Hiding out with William and talking to Pickles also helped.

The lucid days, Magnus babied him. He laid beside him kissing all the injuries and apologized. He bought him gifts and let him choose what he wanted to do on his free days. The sober days brought hours of music making. Those days convinced Skwisgaar it would be okay; they could overcome this and just like his wedding vows he loved his husband faithfully through the good times and the bad. Bruises healed, punishments and chores were exchanged for days full of sex and cuddling. Magnus stayed clean for a week before turning back into a monster.

For his twenty-first birthday he asked for his husband to stay clean.

Magnus laughed and asked him if he was serious. He stopped laughing, he could see how much it meant to his spouse. He agreed, the younger man was headed out on tour the week after. He would spend the week before his birthday being miserable and sick. The perks being he could give Skwisgaar a week of happiness before the tour. He became quite the handful when he drank and got stoned. His husband deserved this.

The birthday week was everything Skwisgaar wanted. He treasured the quality time spent in the studio recording together. Hours were spent playing guitar together the way they did when they first met. They drank wine and listened to the records, danced to their song, and made love on the living room floor. Skwisgaar pulled Magnus into every room to continue the game of ‘ _where haven’ts we mades the love’_ to keep it interesting. The week went by to quickly as they cuddled on the couch watching a stack of rental movies the night before Skwisgaar left for tour.

Skwisgaar could legally drink in the bars as of August 1st.

By August 3rd he was on his first tour where his bandmates didn’t have to sneak him a drink after the show.

He celebrated the victories – his husband’s sobriety, his fourth year in America, his career, and friendships. He forgot about the broken furniture, bruises, punishments, and fears. Everything got back to normal. Magnus promised to keep off the drugs while he toured. He forgot that his life was sometimes miserable for ten months.

His false sense of security shattered when Magnus didn’t show up to pick him up at the airport. He stood at baggage claim with his luggage cart stacked with his gear waiting until Jeff of Agnostic Priest approached him.

“Common, kiddo. I’ll give you a ride home,” he offered.

Skwisgaar tried not to look disappointed. He spoke to Magnus the night before; he left a reminder on the calendar in the kitchen. He told him many times about his return and how excited he was to see him. He followed Jeff out to the parkade and packed his gear into the backseat of the car. He really felt slighted that Magnus forgot. He hardly said anything the whole drive to his house. He lived on the other side of town from Jeff, he inconvenienced him. He knew his resting bitch face settled in with a twinge of anger yanking his lips into a pursed pout.

“Don’t be to mad, Skwisgaar. He used to be unreliable at making it to gigs near the end of his career,” Jeff said. He used to be in a band with Magnus. He figured the kid didn’t know the whole story of why the great Magnus Hammersmith didn’t make it with other bands. Some of it was the drugs and drinking, the animosity towards Pickles of Snakes N Barrels, and his off the handle temper. Jeff worried about Skwisgaar, the kid showed up at practice a few times marked up and flinching when someone moved to fast. He kept notes on the severity of the bruises he saw and the missed band practices in his lyrics book. The blonde joined their band when he was nineteen and they felt responsible to a degree for his wellbeing. Jeff noticed the changes in his character the longer he stayed with Magnus, the kid became guarded about everything. He used to chatter and find great joy learning English with them. Now he stated he didn’t want to do back vocals because his English sucked. He played sloppy which didn’t make sense until Jeff got a look at his hands and saw the bloody blisters at the tips of his fingers. Skwisgaar confided in him about a weekend recording session that left his fingers raw from playing guitar and fiddle. When he started wearing his wedding ring to practices, they couldn’t do anything. The kid made his choice to stay with Magnus. His bruises and absence became a theme, they all hated watching it happen. Even on tour, faint yellow bruises littered his body and reminded them that Magnus Hammersmith’s temper raged on.

“He promised me he woulds be there.”

Jeff nearly turned the car around. They got a week off before heading out on tour for another week. Skwisgaar needed to be away from his husband. Taking him home risked his health. Over the two weeks they toured, the kid was happy. He acted the same way he did when his world didn’t have Magnus looming over him. His plan got interrupted by an offhanded comment.

“I missed hims a lot,” Skwisgaar admitted. Anger aside, he looked forward to sleeping in his bed again. The familiar sounds of his husband snoring, the fan humming and oscillating air over them, the odd drip of water from the bathtub faucet and the creaking of the hardwood floor when someone got up put him at ease. Tonight, he would sleep well being surrounded by familiarity.

“I always miss my wife when I’m away.”

Skwisgaar fell silent again. He wasn’t allowed to talk about Magnus to his bandmates. His stomach ached and soured; his knee bounced uneasily as they turned onto his street. The house was blacked out when they pulled up. He didn’t know what awaited him inside, so far not a good sign. All his plants in the planter boxers were wilted. The car was parked in the driveway instead of the garage, a good sign he might have attempted to pick him up.

Jeff parked the car in the driveway next to the other car and waited. Skwisgaar didn’t hop out, he sat there fidgeting the way he did when he got upset. “Want me to help you get everything inside?” he offered.

“Nej, I cans manage,” Skwisgaar blurted. Jeff treated him with respect, he never pushed him for answers, never pulled him aside very often unless he had too. He didn’t want to invite Jeff into his hell. He sensed what waited for him would be a moody Magnus.

“Okay,” Jeff replied. He watched the blonde hurry along to get his backpack and duffle bag tossed onto the porch to then come back for his guitar and amp. He stopped for a second as if he wanted to say something to him. He looked torn between the house and the car. His mouth opened and closed a few times, his eyes squinting in indecision. He gnawed at his dry lips while he stood there lost in his thoughts.

Involving Jeff was stupid idea.

Skwisgaar managed a weak smile, “I sees you in a week.”

“Yah, I’ll see you then. Call me if you want to jam,” Jeff said. He put the idea out there in case his friend needed an escape. A week was a long time for someone like Skwisgaar. Jeff didn’t leave until his bandmate opened the front door of his house and loaded in all his luggage. He got the wave to leave and he left.

Inside, Skwisgaar teared up. His house stank of dope and weed. He turned on the living room lights to find every available surface lined in empty beer cans and bottles. He toed off his Chelsea boots to investigate further. He roamed into the kitchen to find dishes and pans everywhere. The stench of garbage and rot greeted him there. He padded down the hallway with a bit of annoyance in his walk when his foot stepped down onto a piece of broken glass.

“Jävla helvete,” he spat jumping back. He slammed his hand out desperately in search of the light switch. When he found it, he flipped the switch to see the light shine over all the pieces of green and brown glass littering the floor. He upturned his foot to find a rather large piece of green glass sticking out from the arch of his foot. He got queasy looking at the blood seeping into his light gray sock, blood made him dizzy. He breathed in a sobering breath and wiggled the chunk of glass from his foot. He almost threw up seeing how much stabbed into his flesh.

His trembling hand dropped the glass to the floor. He stepped his way through the maze of danger towards his bedroom. He clasped his hand over his mouth, him throwing up in the hall would only add to the clean up. He hurried himself along. His injured foot not making full contact with the floor as he hustled into the bedroom where he saw Magnus passed out in bed with the bedside lamp on. He stepped cautiously into the adjoining bathroom where he proceeded to throw up in the sink. He heaved a few times until his stomach settled.

“Varför gjorde du det här mot mig?” Skwisgaar whimpered. He found the first aid kit under the sink, he took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and pulled off his sock. The cut wasn’t to deep, a small surface puncture that would hurt for a week. He wiped it clean with an alcohol wipe, he saturated the cut in antibiotic ointment before wrapping it up in a gauze bandage.

Skwisgaar hobbled into the bedroom to look at his husband laying in their bed. His lip trembled, he watched the rise and fall of him chest and thanked Odin for that small miracle. He carefully sat down on the floor and took Magnus’ hand in his.

“Whys you do this to mes?” he asked.

No response.

“I just wants you to love me the ways you did whens I was eighteen,” he said. The tears came naturally, he sat there crying silent tears, listening to his husband breathe. The fan oscillated sending blonde strands of hair dancing on the breeze, the dripping water from the bathtub faucet thudded in a steady beat, the hardwood creaked under his bottom when he shifted to stretch his legs out and lean his back against the nightstand.

Magnus twitched a bit but remained asleep.

Skwisgaar traced along each of his husband’s calloused fingers. He closed his blue eyes to block out the urge to look at him. With him back on heroin, the abuse would start again. He was terrified, he didn’t want Magnus to lash out at him. His bruised faded from the last time he got beaten up. His ego healed from all the humiliating punishments thrown his way. He begged Odin to make this right, help him find the patience and strength to overcome his obstacles. He rejected to breakdown. He let the tears fall, he forced himself to stay calm to avoid the anxiety attack inching up on him.

“All I wants is for us to be okays,” Skwisgaar whispered tiredly. “I loves you throughs good times and bad. I vows that to yous.”

The old man tried to roll away only to stop moving when the blonde locked his grip on his hand.

Skwisgaar remained still with his eyes closed. He rejected to let him go, he could drown in his high, but he wouldn’t drown out here in the real world. “I loves you regardless of the obstackles we face,” he added.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus concludes the first ten months after the wedding.  
> I feel so sad for Skwisgaar, this was another one of those chapters that necessary to my plot made me sad to write.  
> Also feel guilty saying enjoy the story since it was sad.


End file.
